


Auribus Teneo Lupum

by WoodlandGoddess1



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dungeon, Imprisonment, Lovers To Enemies, M/M, Restraints, Spit As Lube, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 07:52:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17894456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoodlandGoddess1/pseuds/WoodlandGoddess1
Summary: Camelot wasn’t the vibrant place he remembered. It had dulled with misery, with endless pain and hatred.





	Auribus Teneo Lupum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittensTinyMittens (Onasariel)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onasariel/gifts).



> Based on this prompt on the [Kinks of Camelot](https://kinksofcamelot.livejournal.com/1806.html?thread=33294#t33294).
> 
> Writing this fic was a challenge because a) it isn't something I ship, and b) I can't stand Uther. I much prefer having him be dead or estranged. Having him be an active character was a struggle. But I wanted to please the person who left the prompt on the kink meme!
> 
> The title is an Ancient Roman proverb meaning "holding a wolf by the ears," a scenario where doing nothing and doing something are both dangerous options.

Camelot wasn’t the vibrant place he remembered. It had dulled with misery, with endless pain and hatred. People in the streets ducked their heads as he passed by, shoulders hunching, as though protecting themselves from something larger than him. So much had changed. Though it was a tragedy, the change in their demeanour wasn’t a surprise. He’d heard of the atrocities committed over the last few months. He’d heard of the death that brought Uther Pendragon to his knees with agony, a grief so immense that the sound of his heart tearing in two had rippled through the land. He’d felt the tremors in the earth and the whisper of his anguished screams on the wind. He’d woken from his sleep with a vibrant pain searing within his chest and he’d clutched at his heart immediately, gasping, his vision blurring as he remembered the promises he’d made.

That he’d come back when Uther needed him most.

Balinor hardened himself against the painful memory, against the phantom pains that affected his heart even now as he approached the castle looming in front of him. But his memories wouldn’t leave him alone and drew him deeper instead.

He’d tried to return in order to be with his King, to help him overcome his agony, but he hadn’t been far from the citadel when the news reached him: the gift of magic had been criminalised and the punishment was death. Whether the use of that magic was for good or ill was immaterial according to the law and according to the King, who’d once sat beside him and watched as he conjured dragons comprised of scarlet flames while a soft smile danced across his noble features.

Balinor hadn’t dared to return when he heard the news. He’d lingered atop one of the rolling hills overlooking the castle instead and ached for his dearest friend as it began raining softly, droplets clinging to his beard and the thick locks of his hair. He’d remained there for hours before conceding defeat and turning his mount away, urging the horse to flee the realm before Uther caught wind of his return. He’d known there would be no exceptions to the ban on magic: a decision was final once the King of Camelot set one into motion.

None could dissuade him from his path.

Not unless he let them.

Uther was the kind of man that bended to no authority, but that of his wife. Counsel from other members of the court was heard and ignored on countless occasions in the past and there was no doubt that it would remain so in the future. Perhaps it was even more likely, now that Ygraine Pendragon was no longer there to soothe his stubbornness and coax him to relent on foolish decisions. Not even Lord Gorlois Le Fay, who’d known him since infancy, could change his mind when Uther dug in his heels.

Balinor had to hope the man had seen sense of his own volition. Surely, Uther must remember the innocent uses of magic. He must remember the nights he’d spent helping him learn new incantations. He must remember the bursts of raucous laughter shared between them whenever an incantation went wrong — like the time he’d half-transfigured himself into a goat because he’d mispronounced a single word in the incantation. He’d thought Uther would die laughing, bent over and clutching the nearest chair for support while Balinor bleated with indignation before gasping with shock and breaking down into laughter himself.

He’d lost count of the uncontrollable giggles he heard that night — when Uther was too fatigued to continue laughing at such a loud volume and had flopped down on the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. He’d lost count of the times he’d wanted to kiss the giggles out of his mouth and remind him of what magic could do when done right.

Surely, that must be the reason he’d summoned him.

Balinor let that hope flood through his veins and squared his shoulders as he mounted the familiar steps leading into the castle. Hope was the blood of the future and he’d never leave it drain away, no matter what happened over the last few months. He had to believe the man he loved would come through for him and the others that depended on him to protect them.

He had to keep the faith alive.

Balinor announced himself to the guards standing sentry, who shared a glance before directing him inside: the King wished to speak to him in private. His confidence wavering marginally, he declined an escort and continued on his way; he was no stranger to the castle or to those lavish chambers. He’d known those chambers like the back of his hand once. He strode through familiar corridors with more confidence than he felt. Part of him hoped it was possible to rekindle the friendship that once burned between him and the King, but another part of him feared that it wasn’t.

Part of him feared there would be a chasm between them forever.

Balinor squashed that lingering fear into a cupboard at the back of his mind and knocked upon the door quietly, remembering a time when knocking wasn’t necessary, when he could walk in unannounced.

“Enter,” Uther said loudly, his voice familiar despite the faint strain present.

Swallowing, Balinor did as commanded and stopped just inside the doorway, the oaken door a solid presence against his back. Memories bubbled to the surface as he was presented with warm furniture and a familiar red coverlet. Not to mention the embroidered pillows. He ignored those memories in favour of bowing to his King briefly, swallowing the urge to dart forward and greet him with a kiss. There was too much emotional distance between them now for him to dare such a thing, and far too much shadow marring the skin beneath his long lashes. Uther was hurting, still hurting so terribly, and Balinor didn’t want to open old wounds and make him bleed now that some time had passed since Ygraine was laid to rest beneath the castle.

Instead he cast a glance at the cradle nearby, where the growing infant was beginning to cry, releasing choked and tired wails of need that made his heart clench within his chest.

It was a heartbreaking sound to hear.

It was also clear that the child wasn’t a stranger to wailing, to calling out for comfort and affection from the King, whose broad shoulders were tense as he continued reading through his paperwork.

“Please take a seat.” Uther spoke quietly, though there was an irritated scowl etched upon his exhausted features. He glowered at the cradle briefly, but huffed and returned to his paperwork after a moment. “I won’t be too long.”

“I can’t just sit down when he needs attention. The child is lonely, Uther.”

“Lonely,” Uther scoffed in tired disbelief. “I’ve been with him for hours!”

“He doesn’t know that!” Balinor glared at him and itched to approach the cradle. He wanted to draw the child into his arms and provide as much comfort and affection as possible. Clearly, Uther knew nothing about babies. Balinor would have to educate him before long — the time he’d spent helping tired mothers with their newborns as a child had to be good for something, after all. “Babies have no concept of permanence! We cease to exist when babies can’t see us and the world around them is so lonely; babies need to see us and need to know we’re there for them. Ignoring him won’t help him grow.”

“I’m not ignoring him.” Uther frowned severely, his mouth twisting with no small amount of displeasure at the suggestion. He waved a dismissive hand before making a few notes with his quill. “I’m teaching him a lesson in patience. Arthur needs to understand that I can’t be with him all day, and it would be best to learn that lesson now.”

“Okay,” Balinor replied dubiously, “but _I_ don’t need to teach him that lesson.”

“You want to hold him?” Uther froze completely, and something flickered across his features too swift for him to catch. His heart thundering, Balinor waited on tenterhooks for several long and agonising moments and then breathed a small sigh of relief when Uther said quietly, “Go ahead.”

Hope surged within him as Balinor hastened towards the cradle at once. The wailing began easing when that blurred blue gaze spotted him leaning over the cradle. His heart melted in an instant. Balinor scooped him out of the cradle carefully, murmuring soothing words all the while. A smile bloomed when small hands curled around locks of his hair. He eased into the available chair with Arthur cradled against his chest.

He didn’t have to wait long for Uther to set aside his papers and confess:

“I want a truce.”

“Why,” Balinor asked immediately, unable to help himself despite the burst of warm hope that swelled within his chest. His nerves quivered when Uther levelled a displeased frown at him — he’d never liked being questioned as a boy, and that was still true now. But he had to ask. “Why, after all this time? What changed?”

“I can’t atone for what I’ve done.” The words fell from his tongue like feet peeling themselves from wet clay, as though it took all his strength to voice them. His mouth tightened fractionally, and Balinor longed to lean across the writing desk and tease a smile into existence again. He hadn’t seen the man smile in so long, and the deepening wrinkles around his mouth suggested he hadn’t smiled in months. Most likely, Uther hadn’t smiled since Arthur was born and his wife passed away, and that thought wounded Balinor. He should have been there for his King, to keep him grounded and provide support when Ygraine faded and left him alone and unprepared to raise a squalling infant. “But I must do something.”

“You regret starting the Purge then?”

“Ygraine wouldn’t be happy,” Uther answered slowly, his gaze dipping, the weight of his loss still so immense. His proud shoulders hunched beneath it. His hands curled into fists briefly, a sure sign of his rising distress. Balinor had witnessed it several times before. He cradled Arthur still closer as he listened carefully, frowning heavily, though the blooming hope continued to spread through him despite the nerves twisting his stomach. He ignored the grumble of complaint from the innocent babe in his arms: he knew babies were sensitive to the shift of emotions within a room and his emotions weren’t going to change quickly; Arthur would have to settle down or remain disgruntled for as long as Balinor and Uther discussed a truce between those who practiced magic and those who persecuted them. “Frankly, she’d be disgusted with how I’ve acted over the last few months. It…has taken me some time to view the situation objectively, and not so personally, and I regret that I lashed out without thought. I regret that I acted on instinct and not reason.”

“Uther…”

“I haven’t heard someone call me that in some time.” A strained smile curled around lips that used to kiss Balinor so ardently, so deeply, and he couldn’t help reaching out with one hand to cover one clenched fist. It twitched beneath his touch. Balinor wasn’t surprised in the least: being a ruler was lonely, and few people dared to touch a King so casually, so intimately, and Uther must have become so starved of affection over the last few months. “I missed it. I missed this.”

The clench of his hand eased.

Uther turned his hand over a moment later and let their fingers tangle together inelegantly, a reminder that he hadn’t forgotten. That he remembered how close the pair of them were in the past. That he longed for their relationship as Balinor did. Something loosened in his chest and then Balinor smiled brightly, the weight of Arthur in his arms disappearing as his spirit soared with happiness.

“I missed this too.” His smile dimmed somewhat after a moment and he looked away, opting to look down at the babe in his arms instead. He ran a tender hand over soft tufts of blond hair and his heart leaped into his throat as small legs kicked immediately, soft noises of incoherent conversation escaping the bow of his pink mouth. A gasp of surprise escaped Uther and Balinor looked up immediately, finding the man he loved in the midst of staring at his own son like he’d never seen the child before. Balinor opted to catch his attention immediately, admitting, “I wanted to come back…before. I almost did. I stopped on the hills nearby, and remained there for hours before leaving: The Purge had started already, and I wasn’t sure of how welcome I’d be. I thought I was too late. I’m glad I wasn’t.”

“As am I.” Uther looked away, the beginnings of another smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. This one didn’t look so tired. His hand slipped free and then reached for blank parchment. “We need to discuss the terms of our truce. I just hope the dragonkin will be amenable.”

“I’ll do whatever I can to help!”

“I’m counting on it.” The pair shared another small smile. “Let’s get to it.”

Balinor and Uther discussed the terms until the candles had burned low and the sun was setting, and the tentative negotiations were close to being complete. The document just needed some polishing and a few signatures now. His arms were leaden from cradling Arthur in his arms. That was when Balinor opted to head away, and rose from his chair to settle the sleeping babe into his cradle. He ran a gentle hand over his soft head one last time before hesitating in front of the writing desk standing between him and his former lover. The powerful urge to kiss the man he loved returned and he could see Uther watching, waiting, something indecipherable teasing at the edge of his gaze. His strong hand snapped his quill in half and Balinor looked away, his face heating, remembering when those hands used to hold him down with such ease.

He looked forward to experiencing that strength again.

Balinor glanced at Uther once more and swallowed thickly, wanting so fiercely, but knowing it was far too soon to bridge the gap between them. Relationships like theirs took time and patience to rebuild. He’d have to wait before daring to kiss Uther as he once kissed him in the past. Balinor bowed respectfully, and then retreated slowly, never once taking his gaze from the man he loved until the door swung shut and separated them at last. He leaned his forehead against the oaken door and released a shaking breath as the weight of what had transpired over the last few hours realised itself within his abdomen. His hand rose and pressed against his chest — as though he could still the wild thundering of his heart with a simple touch of his hand. It rose to cover his mouth a moment later as a surge of euphoric laughter bubbled forth from his chest and he quelled it at once.

He didn’t want to risk waking Arthur.

His mind whirred as Balinor vacated the castle and counted the long months he’d been away, an uncomfortable feeling settling within the pit of his stomach even as he thought about the child now sleeping. His chest flooded with affection despite the discomfort. He couldn’t wait to cradle Arthur in his arms again and hoped he’d get another chance soon enough. He couldn’t wait to guide Uther through the difficulties of parenthood and rekindle their relationship along the way, and hopefully, Arthur would grow up with two proud and supportive fathers at his back.

But he needed to handle a few things before that could happen.

Firstly, Balinor needed to visit with the elders and enlighten them about the negotiations now underway, and then he needed to discuss the matter with Kilgharrah before raising the issue with the other dragonkin. The Great Dragon held a large amount of sway, and his stance on the matter at hand would encourage others to seek peace with Camelot. He just hoped Kilgharrah would be amenable to the negotiation. He knew that Kilgharrah was waiting for the Once and Future King, and waiting most eagerly, but perhaps this was the moment he’d been waiting for all along.

Perhaps Uther was the edge upon which the future balanced now. Uther had persecuted magic in his madness and he’d realised his wrongdoing over time. He now sought peace for the future. That had to mean something — and not just for Balinor.

It had to mean something for the whole of Camelot.

Perhaps even the whole of Albion.

Truthfully, Balinor could imagine Uther enthroned over Albion all too easily; the man he loved was a force of nature.

Still contemplating the future and the prospect of rekindling his passionate relationship with the King, Balinor vacated the citadel as well. He’d return in the morning, once he’d spoken to the others. Until then...he could afford to cherish the flames of hope burning within his chest and flooding his veins with warmth.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t want to parlay,” Kilgharrah announced sharply, his large and powerful frame tight with unease and his golden gaze vibrant against red scales that glittered like gemstones in the moonlight. His powerful frame occupied a large section of the clearing, where Balinor and several elders convened to discuss the situation at hand with The Great Dragon. Mist swirled at their feet and danced whenever Kilgharrah moved. Lethal fangs made an appearance as his reptilian lips twisted around a snarl of malice. “I don’t trust Uther Pendragon to keep his word.”

“You don’t even know him!” Balinor couldn’t help the note of anger that creeped into his voice as he spoke. He knew Uther had done so much wrong, but there was still goodness inside him. He knew it. He could feel it down in his core. That Kilgharrah wouldn’t even give the man a chance infuriated him. “Please reconsider! We’re talking about the future of our people!”

“I don’t need to know him!” Kilgharrah reared back immediately, his large nostrils flaring, a vibrant red glowing for an instant before he managed to quell the flames burning in his gut. His powerful tail whipped through the air and disturbed the mist swirling around them once more. “I have lived for a millennium and I have seen his kind before. Uther Pendragon will turn upon us at the nearest opportunity; his purge will continue without relent and our kind will be wiped from Albion. You must trust me!”

“I trust _him_!”

“You’re _besotted_ with him.” Balinor ducked just in time to avoid the violent sweep of a tail as Kilgharrah roared with fury, his whole frame vibrating. Lethal splinters flew in all directions as the trunk of a tree shattered beneath the force of the blow. Balinor looked at the wreckage and swallowed thickly, aware that it could have been him that shattered when Kilgharrah lashed out with such reckless violence. “Your judgement can’t be trusted. I propose an immediate exclusion from the discussion!”

“Don’t be hasty,” Saorlann advised quickly, the experienced elder stepping forward at once. He raised a calming hand toward each of them and forced them to retreat a step or two. Balinor pretended he hadn’t seen the faint tremor of age affecting his hands — he knew there were several decades left in the old man. Saorlann looked between him and the Great Dragon for a moment and then said carefully, his tone measured and laced with understanding, “We’re all burdened with difficult decisions in these hard times…but we can’t allow them to break our bonds of fellowship. I suggest we take some time to cool our heads and then reconvene for further discussion. I presume I don’t need to issue a binding command here.”

Kilgharrah sniffed and looked elsewhere.

Balinor sighed and shook his head.

“I didn’t think so.” Saorlann lowered his hands and smiled warmly, beckoning Balinor to his side as he headed deeper into the mist. He’d become a mentor to him recently, after his father had died without much warning, leaving him with a gift that Balinor hadn’t understood. Balinor welcomed the warm weight of his wizened hand upon his shoulder and longed for his father simultaneously, but he knew such longing was fruitless. It would never bring him back. He knew he had to keep moving forward and hope the future would bring more peace than the past had. “You’re upset and I understand why, but we must take his perspective on the matter into consideration as well. The Great Dragon has witnessed and experienced much suffering since the Purge began: his sister lost her hatchlings to the violence of Camelot last month. It hit him hard. Forgiving Uther Pendragon will be no simple matter for him.”

“Of course not.” Balinor looked down at the ground and inhaled sharply, unable to prevent himself from imagining the shattered corpses of those hatchlings. He’d felt the sharp shift in the balance at the time…but he hadn’t expected something so brutal. “I’m not asking him to forgive the King, Saorlann. I’m asking him to give the future a chance.”

“I know.” His mentor squeezed his shoulder. “Just give him some time.”

“Okay,” Balinor said quietly, his heart falling against his will. “I can give him that.”

 

* * *

 

 

Eventually, after much gentle prodding, Kilgharrah agreed to attend a public meeting with the King — though he refused to reach a decision that extended further than that. He and the other dragonkin would convene in private afterwards and discuss the matter amongst themselves.

Balinor would take that stance sooner than an outright refusal.

His heart thumping, Balinor came to a stop before the castle and let the calming presence of his mentor wash over him in waves. He couldn’t explain the nerves running rampant through him. He couldn’t explain the itch just below the surface of his skin. He knew the meeting would prove beneficial: Kilgharrah and the others would see that Uther meant no further harm to those with magic and a truce would be signed between their peoples. His hands clenched at his sides as Saorlann chuckled fondly, looking askance at him as a warm smile curled his mouth.

Kilgharrah seemed as anxious as Balinor felt. His tail twitched repeatedly, sending up plumes of dust as it brushed against the cobblestones underfoot. His lethal talons gouged through stone as the Great Dragon directed an emotionless stare at the castle and at the King, whose masculine crown gleamed as he descended the steps.

Uther held his defenceless babe in his arms carefully, almost tenderly, though he paid no attention to the small hands reaching for him with unspoken desperation. His attention was focused upon Balinor instead as he strode toward him with purpose. His gaze burned with something, something indefinable.

Balinor couldn’t help swallowing thickly, his heart clenching, struck with so much tender emotion. He wanted to dart forward and wrap his arms around both of them in a declaration of love and intention…but he couldn’t. He needed to maintain his distance for now. Promises of continued affection and subsequent proposals could wait until the pair of them grew to know each other once more. He didn’t want to scare the man away, not when the pain of losing his wife was still so fresh in his heart and her absence was still so apparent in their bed.

Not when he and Uther were so close to having the means of being together again.

Balinor opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again when Saorlann stepped forward immediately, bowing, murmuring the appropriate greeting that a man of such high status required. He followed suit at once. It felt odd to bow when he used to kneel so willingly, so lovingly, pledging his allegiance with each kiss and caress.

“I appreciate how much strength and perseverance it must have taken to attend this meeting,” Uther said quietly, once he’d bid both of them to rise. “I know I’ve not made the prospect of an alliance easy; I’m grateful that I’ve been given this chance.”

“It was our pleasure.”

Kilgharrah released a disdainful snort as soon as Balinor spoke the words and Balinor glowered up at the beast immediately, hoping the Great Dragon wouldn’t disrupt the meeting with his attitude. Fortunately, there was no chance that Kilgharrah or the others would make trouble physically; he and Saorlann had ensured that with a few words that morning, though Kilgharrah hadn’t appreciated the interference in the slightest. He’d raged against it. Several trees had been shattered to pieces with a whirl of his powerful tail in lieu of using the flames burning in his gut.

“I trust there’ll be no trouble today,” Uther inquired after casting an almost anxious glance at Kilgharrah and retreating a step carefully, his arms tightening noticeably, cradling Arthur closer to his strong chest.

“You needn’t worry,” Balinor said quickly, ignoring the voice that rumbled at him within the confines of his head. He ignored the sharp glance from his mentor. “Saorlann and I have ensured the dragons won’t attack today, even if some tempers get lost during the discussion. Prince Arthur is safe.”

Uther looked at him at once. Something indecipherable glimmered in his gaze for an instant and then disappeared as he looked away, something akin to determination washing over his features. He retreated another step and then whistled loudly, the note sharp and commanding, and Balinor didn’t have a chance to whisper his name in question before the world fell into chaos.

Balinor whirled around as an agonised roar escaped the dragons consecutively, their powerful frames impaled with steel arrows as tall and thick as a grown man. He thrust his hand forward and bellowed a few words of the old tongue mere seconds before another arrow struck the Great Dragon. His spell seized Kilgharrah and wrenched him out of the way, pulling him flat against the ground. The enormous shaft trembled as the force shattered the cobblestones nearby, the large arrowhead driving deep into the soil beneath.

Almost in the same breath as he’d pulled Kilgharrah out of the way, a wave of Knights in gleaming chainmail and cloaks that flowed like so much blood flooded the area while the Great Dragon was still pinned to the ground. A roar of rage and terror escaped the beast and Balinor felt the rip in his chest as their connection was severed between one heartbeat and the next. Grief flooded through him. An anguished scream tore free of his throat as he saw the thick iron collar marked with countless runes that glowed brightly, reducing the Great Dragon to a docile creature that offered no more fight and no more fury; he’d let them kill him and wouldn’t even blink.

Balinor had taken less than five steps toward his reptilian kin before rough hands seized him and wrenched his arms behind his back. Cold iron clamped around his wrists before he could snarl. His knees buckled in an instant. He arched sharply, a shout of pain ripping out of his chest. His magic thrashed and bellowed for release and the shackles refused to budge: he wasn’t strong enough to break free on his own. None of his kin were strong enough to shatter such powerful bonds. His vision blurred as Saorlann crashed to his knees not too far away, his wrists as shackled as his own. His tears spilled as one of the guards plunged a sword through his chest when Saorlann spat on the name of the King, the man who’d lured them there with a promise of peace and turned back on his word.

Uther Pendragon wasn’t a man.

He wasn’t a monarch.

He was nothing more than a knave.

Just admitting that to himself was like a dagger to his heart. It ripped through him as his mentor crumpled to the ground in a bloodied heap and stared vacantly, drained of life and spirit. His brethren fell one after another until none remained but Balinor and Kilgharrah.

Uther Pendragon crossed into his line of sight slowly, towering over him. There was no infant to be seen now. Arthur had been a ruse all along, one designed the moment Balinor fell in love with the innocent babe. His gut twisted as Uther stepped closer and cast him into shadow. His gloved hand seized his jaw when Balinor tried to look away, to look elsewhere and scorn him without speaking a word. Something akin to tenderness washed over the King, whose gaze tracked the progression of his tears for a moment.

“You’re at our mercy,” Uther murmured softly, his gaze still riveted upon his face. His thumb swept through a trail of tears almost sweetly, affectionately, a painful reminder of what had once been shared between them in the past. A slap in the face of all that had transpired just moments ago. His voice softened even further. “I’ve spent hours debating what to do once I reached this point. It wasn’t a lie: I did miss this. I still do.”

Balinor said nothing, feeling the wound in his heart doubling in size with each accursed word that fell from that treacherous tongue. His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists behind his back and released a moment later. He tried to keep his expression empty, but knew he’d failed when an indecipherable gleam developed within that familiar gaze. He flinched when a second hand reached for him and forced himself still when Uther brushed a lock of his hair away, back from his face.

Uther released him a moment later and barked sharply, “Take him to the dungeons.”       

   

* * *

 

He’d forgotten how cold the dungeon was. How the chill slithered beneath fabric and skin to claw at delicate bone. He hadn’t been in the dungeon since he was a foolish boy, when he’d been shoved into one of the cells for being drunk and disorderly, his longstanding friend stumbling in a moment or so later and landing on him when he tripped over his own drunken feet. He’d laughed into the eager kisses that soon followed — wet and clumsy, but soft and affectionate all the same. He’d forgotten about the cold because he’d remembered the warmth of gloved hands cradling his face and tangling in his hair as the pair of them lost themselves in each other without a care in the world.

Uther had loved his hair then. He’d loved to card his fingers through it during the soft moments shared between them. He’d loved fisting it when he was angry, and when he was needy, and Balinor had been eager to do as he pleased.

He’d been so eager.

It was strange to think the man he’d loved had changed so much in the time he’d been away, learning how to use his gift. Swallowing thickly, Balinor looked down at his knees and tried to keep his thoughts quiet. He didn’t want to think about Uther. He didn’t want to think about an infant just old enough to leave most of him wondering, and a small part of him hoping, and a larger part of him dreading, given the events that unfolded in his absence. He didn’t want to think about the beautiful woman who’d welcomed him into her bed willingly, a seductive gleam in her gaze as she’d touched herself with one hand and stroked her husband with the other. She’d been so beautiful and so young, so warm and kind to the people that idolised her and her stubborn husband.

She’d been a vibrant light snuffed far too soon.

Balinor bowed his head and gripped his own hair tightly, almost punishingly, drawing his knees closer to his chest. He wanted his mind to shut up. He wanted the memories to stop plaguing him. He couldn’t bear them. He couldn’t bear to remember what the knave had been like before Ygraine passed away, before his leash snapped in half and he set forth on his accursed quest. He couldn’t bear to remember vacant stares and agonised roars or blood spilling across the cobblestones. An anguished noise choked itself to death in his throat. Balinor shook his head sharply, hoping the searing sensation across his scalp would burn the memories away, but his hopes were futile. Waves of memories crashed over him again and again as silence reigned in the dungeon. He forced himself to breathe slowly, one breath at a time and pausing, holding it deep in his chest before releasing. It was a trick he’d learned when his anger would get the better of him when he was a child and his magic would lash out without permission.

Most practitioners of magic learned that trick as children.

Fortunately, it had other benefits now. His heartbeat calmed and the tension in his frame eased away, taking the ache of prolonged stillness with it. He eased himself onto his side on the cold floor and stared at the gateway, at the bars that represented his loss of freedom.

Shadows loomed outside and there wasn’t a guard in sight.

Balinor drew his arms closer to his chest and grimaced when the chain connecting his shackles rattled. His wrists had been shackled in front of him once he’d been brought to his cell and shoved hard enough that he’d fallen to the floor. He’d been too bruised and winded to fight for his freedom when one half of the shackles had been opened long enough to move his arms in front of him. He’d cursed himself as the cold iron had snapped around his wrist all over again.

Gaius had come to see him not long after he’d been incarcerated. Both of them had ignored the snickers and jibes that had echoed down the corridor behind him. He’d closed the cell door quietly, almost carefully, and he’d looked at Balinor with so much compassion that the urge to break down in tears had almost overwhelmed him. But he’d managed to hold the emotion at bay, allowing his friend to ease his tunic up over his shoulders and soothe the growing bruise with an ointment scented with mint.

Neither of them had spoken a word.

Balinor drew in a deep breath and held it within his chest for a moment before releasing it with one long exhalation. His frame loosened even further. Slowly, gradually, his gaze grew heavy, his vision darkening a fraction with each moment that passed and Balinor knew nothing more until he snapped awake an indeterminate amount of time later to find the hairs on the back of his neck had risen in warning. Goosebumps broke out across his limbs. His hands curled into fists as he searched the shadows looming around him slowly, his breath hitching, his heart jumping into his throat as his stomach knotted. His lungs froze with fright as he spotted someone standing in the darkest corner of his dungeon cell. The figure was tall and imposing, his frame broad and strong, and familiar.

Balinor climbed to his feet slowly, carefully, growling, “Come to gloat?”

“You were never that cunning,” Uther answered quietly, though a curl of cruel smugness could be detected in his voice. Easily, far too easily, Balinor could imagine it crawling across his handsome mouth like a disease. The King of Camelot stepped out of the shadows and into the narrow beam of moonlight pouring in through the barred window overhead. It sprawled across his muscular frame like an adoring lover and a suffocating rage surged through Balinor instantly, choking him from within and making it hard to keep standing. He dragged himself upright all the same and raised his chin in defiance. He glared at the treacherous King, around whose head danced several motes of dust for a moment before clouds drifted in front of the moon and the darkness swelled once more. Uther smirked and a tremor of fear ran through Balinor as the man stepped further into the dungeon cell. “I knew it wouldn’t take much to convince such a naïve fool that penance was what I sought.”

Balinor clenched his jaw and said nothing, staring at a space over his shoulder. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of showing his fear as the scent of steel and leather and sulphur wafted around him as a familiar red cloak kissed his legs. His stomach twisted as he recognised the last scent as draconian fire. Balinor almost looked at the King, though he managed to refrain at the last second. Uther chuckled quietly, the sound a familiar purr.

A gloved hand touched his face in the dark.

“Don’t touch me!”

Balinor wrenched himself away, the line of his back hitting the stone wall with the force of a battering ram. His heart jumped through the ceiling overhead. His stomach plummeted through the floor. A cold sweat broke out across the small of his back. He raised his hands — as though such a gesture could ever be enough to keep a man as determined as Uther Pendragon from getting what he wanted.

The backhanded slap struck him like lightning.

Balinor staggered to the side from the force of the blow and clutched his face in startled shock as he gazed at Uther at last. The man he’d loved was trembling, his broad frame alight with pure rage.

“I’ll do as I please.” Uther spoke the words quietly, but forcefully, each one of them like a smooth wing clipped. Balinor swallowed thickly, horrified and shaking, wondering how he could ever have loved someone who could turn so dark in such a short span of time. His hands curled and fell to act as a barrier once more as Uther loomed into his personal space without an ounce of hesitation. Balinor quailed beneath the wild hunger that washed over familiar features. Uther tilted his head a fraction as a vicious smirk curled around his mouth like a threat. “You used to beg me to bestow such a slap. You could beg me now and I’d still comply, sweetling.”

“Shut up!” Blood roared in his ears upon hearing the endearment that Uther used to murmur against the shell of his ear when he’d used him until neither of them could move much. “You stupid bast —!”

Uther seized his throat with one cruel hand and wrenched him forward before slamming him up against the wall without mercy, earning a pained gasp. Balinor lashed out with his knee in an instant and the man he’d loved was quick to use his own momentum to send him toppling, face scraping against harsh stone as he hit the floor.

Dust rose in thick plumes around him.

Uther was upon him in seconds.

A choked noise escaped Balinor as his trembling hands scrabbled at the floor desperately, his vision blurring rapidly, the weighted chain connecting his manacled wrists scraping against the stone stretching out ahead of him and reminding him of his dismal chance of escaping. A crushing wave of terror and anguish flooded through his chest and into his gut. It threatened to drown him from within. The thin fabric of his trousers tore as his knees abraded against the stone beneath him during his struggles. A gloved hand fisted his hair and wrenched his head back sharply, searing his scalp.

A hot breath ghosted across his neck.

A strangled sob quaked out of him as a cherished past and an agonising present and a desolate future fused together as Uther pinned him in place with practiced ease. A pair of strong knees forced his thighs apart and robbed him of leverage to move further. The weight against his back was familiar and heavy, a dream and a nightmare merged to torment him.

Balinor lashed out with an elbow — and bit back a harsh shout of pain as he almost snapped his opposite wrist in the process: the chain connecting his manacles was detrimental to his chance of protecting himself from assault and his assailant knew that. Uther grunted in pain behind him as his elbow connected with his chest and then chuckled silkily, amused and pleased in the same breath.

“You know how much I love the chase.”

“I’m not an animal to be hunted!”

“I beg to differ.” Uther growled into the shell of his ear before his teeth snared the delicate lobe sharply, pulling, biting with bruising force. He ground down with his pelvis and Balinor bit his hand to muffle the squeak of fear that tried to escape him as a familiar erection made its presence known against his backside. “You _are_ an animal — the worst kind! I’m going to eradicate them for what was done to Ygraine!”

“That wasn’t their fault. Nor was it mine. You’re not the first man to love a woman more than the world or the last of them! Your grief is a drop in the ocean compared to the suffering of our people!” The words escaped on an anguished roar that echoed through the dungeon cell and out into the corridor. Surely, his voice must have carried to the guards overseeing the dungeons. Surely, someone with even a scrap of a conscience would investigate and intervene before it was too late. Surely, not all of Camelot were lost to the cruel vices of her King, to the callous nature that now overpowered the warmth and kindness that once made Uther Pendragon worth the frustration of dealing with his stubbornness. He knew the Knights wouldn’t help. Not after witnessing the slaughter of his people on the steps of the citadel. But he had to hope that someone — even a passing servant — would find this too cruel to bear. He had to hope there were souls untarnished still living in Camelot. “Your choices led Ygraine to her death! Your hunger and desperation for a child murdered her! No one else is to blame!”

“Shut up!”

“I won’t!” Balinor shouted the words at the top of his lungs as Uther gripped his hair threateningly, moments from ripping it from his scalp or slamming his face into the stone trapped beneath them. His heart thundered in his chest. His lungs struggled for breath. But he had to keep talking. He had to drive the point home as hard as he could in the hope that Uther would stop. “Our people are innocent!”

A sickening crack echoed through the dungeon as Uther slammed his face into the stone beneath him. His nose crunched. Balinor choked on a shout of agony, blood pumping into his mouth in a thick stream as his ears rang. The heels of his hands scrabbled for purchase against the floor for a sparse moment before Uther seized him with rough hands and whirled him onto his back. Gloved hands seized the fabric of his tunic and ripped through it aggressively, heedless of the desperate hands shoving at him and the choked pleas that fell upon deaf ears. Blood pumped down the back of his throat all the while and Balinor sobbed into the shadows that overwhelmed his senses as a cruel mouth snared his and Uther groaned with triumphant pleasure at the taste of copper on his tongue.

Uther was a force of a nature.

His presence encompassed Balinor completely, drowning him. One gloved hand fisted his hair and twisted sharply, earning a pained cry, which Uther devoured as the ocean might devour a ship during a storm. The other hand clawed at his abdomen like talons and headed south with a determination that terrified him. Balinor thrashed violently, his hips twisting, and his legs kicking, doing his best to keep the cruel bastard from reaching the laces of his trousers. Uther chuckled into his mouth and groaned deeply, the sound silken and callous. A cold wave of panic crashed through Balinor when those cruel fingers found his laces and tore them open expertly, making quick use of their shared past and experience to divest him of the barriers standing between Uther and his conquest.

Balinor sobbed when a gloved hand fisted his cock and stroked harshly, leather catching and burning against his flesh without oil to ease the way; his cries of pain echoed through the dungeon as Uther relinquished his mouth and assailed his neck instead. Familiar teeth clamped down without mercy, without hesitation. Balinor bucked beneath him. He smacked his fist into his jaw and sent Uther reeling, swallowing his own shout of pain as teeth tore his flesh.

Blood dripped down a familiar chin.

Snarling, Uther seized him and whipped him onto his belly, his strong thighs forcing his legs as far apart as possible. Balinor struggled to get his hands beneath his chest and give himself some leverage to fight against him. His knees stung as he struggled to find a position from which he could dislodge his assailant enough to free himself and give himself a fighting to chance to prevent what Uther planned to do. He couldn’t let this happen. He couldn’t let Uther take what he wanted. He couldn’t let the callous bastard rob the last scrap of his dignity, the torn remains of his pride in the wake of what he’d done to his people in his blindness and foolish hope.

Uther pressed harder and crushed him against the stone floor.

He couldn’t move.

He couldn’t even squirm in fear.

A terrified noise choked itself to death in his throat as Uther wrenched his trousers down to bare his backside. A hand found his mouth and two gloved fingers forced themselves between his lips roughly, pushing until Balinor had to fight his gag reflex to prevent himself from choking. Tears spilled down his face as a sickening choice prevented itself to him: to let Uther tear him apart at the seams or do what he could to save himself further damage. It was an impossible choice. His stomach tried to force itself into his throat at the thought of choosing, the thought of giving even the smallest scrap of consent to the bastard pinning him down. His soul rebelled against the idea. Pain seared through his chest as his heart twisted itself into a mangled approximation of its former shape.

But he had to survive this.

Shame burned through him as resolve settled in his stomach and threatened to drag him into the ground. He wished it would. Suffocating in the earth would be better that what he had to do to survive. Better than tightening his lips and suckling, lapping at the gloved fingers in his mouth to get them dripping wet with spit. Better than the taste of leather on his tongue and the burn of bile at the back of his throat. Better than the sickening nuzzles of a familiar face against his hair and the soft voice murmuring silkily, “That’s it. I’ll make it so good. It’ll be like old times.”

His lashes squeezed against his cheeks.

Balinor wanted to die.

The minutes seemed to stretch for an eternity, each one punctuated with encouraging murmurs and the caress of leather against his scalp. Familiar hips ground against his backside until Uther deemed his fingers wet enough to begin. Shame and fear washed through him in alternating waves. Balinor clawed at the stone beneath him as a rough hand parted his buttocks and a finger damp with his own spit assaulted the tight furl of his taint. His jaw clenched sharply; a cold sweat broke out across his forehead and he pressed it against cold stone in an attempt to soothe himself. A strangled noise of distress and rebellion escaped him as that first finger sank to the last knuckle and withdrew before pushing back in abruptly, roughly, possessively, an unwanted reminder of when being claimed was something he’d craved.

Bile burned at the back of his throat.

Two of his nails cracked as he gripped the stone beneath him.

Balinor ignored the breaths hitching behind him as he forced himself to relax despite the urge to tense against the unwanted intrusion. He swallowed the urge to thrash and fight against the inevitable. He swallowed the urge to cry, to break down as Uther continued to open him up relentlessly, his gloved fingers claiming him for the first time in so long. A strangled grunt escaped him when those fingers brushed against that sensitive spot inside him and sent a spark of vibrant lightning through his body, igniting his nerves and setting him alight. His hips twisted sharply, pulling away, doing their best to escape the burst of familiar and unwanted sensation.

A rough hand wrenched him backwards at once.

“You’re not escaping me that easily,” Uther murmured silkily, the hint of a cold chuckle dancing at the edge of his voice. Balinor bit back the ragged whimper that threatened to escape him as the gloved fingers withdrew abruptly, knowing what would come next. Spasms ran through his hands and wrists. He tensed as Uther spat on his hand behind him. A violent tremble rippled through his frame. The slick sound of Uther stroking himself turned his stomach and it took a monumental effort not to vomit as the blunt head of a familiar erection found his taint. “Relax. Neither of us want this to hurt more than it should.”

Balinor shuddered in revulsion.

Several agonising moments passed before the tension eased out of his muscles.

A pleased hum rumbled behind him and Balinor did his best to ignore it. He focused on his breathing, on keeping his frame loose and pliant as the pressure against his taint intensified with each passing moment. He swallowed the grunt that threatened to escape him when Uther pushed past that tight ring at last. His frame trembled as Uther kept pushing until he was sheathed fully, possessing him. A gloved caressed his hip almost tenderly; Balinor swallowed thickly, crushing his lashes against his cheeks. His lungs threatened to seize in his chest as Uther nuzzled his hair again and murmured silkily, “You know what to do.”

Nausea churned his gut.

Balinor inched his thighs further apart and canted his hips a fraction. Just that small shift in his position granted his captor a better angle as Uther withdrew slowly, almost gently, before slamming back in a moment later. Balinor didn’t want to comply, but knew he had to. He had to suffer the slick friction as Uther claimed him. He had to suffer the embers of unwanted pleasure that sparked into existence in his abdomen. He had to suffer the tingling tendrils that curled around his limbs like vines and the gasping breaths that fell from parted lips. He had to suffer the heat that suffused his flesh and brought a warm flush to the surface as sweat beaded across his skin.

Balinor didn’t want it. He didn’t want the hard length claiming him or the firm hand gripping his hip. He didn’t want a familiar voice murmuring dark words into his ear. He didn’t want to bear witness to the grunts and groans of his captor. He didn’t want to feel the shame churning through his gut as the faces of his fallen kin flashed through his mind and reminded him of what he was doing — reminded him that he was besmirching their memory, letting Uther have him now. That each gasp and moan of pleasure was an insult to his kin.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have much choice.

Balinor had to ensure he suffered as little damage as possible. He might lose his sanity, and even lose his dignity, but he couldn’t afford to be torn asunder and risk infection in this dank cell. He had to hope that someone in this accursed castle would help him escape. He couldn’t lose that last scrap of hope. He had to believe that fate would free him and lead him elsewhere. He had to believe in the future — even dull and murky, the future had to be better than the cesspool of hatred and torment he was now trapped in. Balinor had to believe in the Once and Future King, who was destined to bring peace to the land and restore magic to its rightful place.

A gloved hand fisted his hair and pulled sharply, sending memories flashing across his mind as the unwelcome sting added to the unwanted sensation building beneath his skin. His breath quickened. His frame tensed and Uther groaned lewdly, lips open against the back of his neck and fanning hot breath across his skin. The force of his hips quickened and Balinor couldn’t stop a strangled whine from escaping him as each thrust sent a stronger wave of sensation through him.

Balinor could feel the tension building. He knew the sensation like he knew the back of his own hand. He could feel it starting between his thighs as a low pulse and spreading outwards in strengthening waves.

It wouldn’t be long until the tension broke.

Balinor crushed his lashes against his cheeks. He didn’t look at the stone floor caked with grime. He didn’t look at his broken nails. He didn’t look at the shadows writhing across the stone wall of his cell. Balinor focused on his breathing. He focused on the future. On knowing the Once and Future King would come and liberate those with magic from the cesspool of hatred and rage plastered against his back. He focused on the knowledge that one day, Uther would know his demise and no one else would have to suffer beneath his bloodstained hands.

Uther relinquished his hair and slipped his hand beneath him. Warm leather enveloped his length and dragged a keen from deep within his chest. Uther stroked him without relent. His back arched. A spasm rippled through his frame and his seed splattered the floor beneath him. A sob choked in his throat as Uther slammed in one last time and reached his peak with a shudder. Uther slumped on top of him immediately, his broad chest heaving.

Nausea twisted his stomach.

Balinor swallowed forcefully, pushing down the acrid taste of bile. He ignored the tears staining his face. He ignored the wetness beneath him. He ignored the weight crushing him against the hard floor. It took all his strength to lie still and fight the urge to vomit as he waited to be left alone in this fetid prison. Balinor counted the seconds until Uther rose finally, lacing his trousers and dusting himself off.

“I still don’t know what to do about this…bond we have.” Uther continued to loom over him as he spoke. He almost seemed as soft as he’d once been in the past. Balinor inhaled sharply, choking on the taste of his own blood. His heart ached almost more than the parts of him that Uther had abused and violated in his pursuit of domination and control. “You’re a temptation that I can’t seem to shake. But I know that I can’t be seen bending the laws I implement. I need to set an example for the court. I must be above reproach.”

Balinor didn’t respond to his remarks. He tried to ignore him. Tried to ignore the tears sliding down over the swollen contours of his face. Tried to ignore the hollow emptiness that turned his chest to lead.

Uther huffed with impatience and nudged him with his boot.

Balinor didn’t react.

“Fine. Be that way,” Uther snapped irritably, his wrathful tone underscored with a familiar note of hurt. As though he’d just poured his heart out and Balinor had rejected him without cause. Balinor almost choked on his rage and anguish at the thought. Uther called for the guard and he was released from the cell a few moments later. Once the cell was locked securely, Uther barked sharply, “He’ll be executed first thing in the morning. Make the arrangements.”

Balinor struggled up from the ground slowly, carefully, wincing when his abused muscles protested. He dragged his trousers up with shaking hands and turned in time to see Uther walking away, his cloak swirling behind him.

“You’re going to die a lonely, broken man.” The words cracked out of him less than a moment before a broken laugh escaped him. It was drenched in bitterness. Balinor raised his chin a fraction when Uther paused. “And no one will care. No one will mourn.”

Uther turned his head a fraction.

A heartbeat passed in silence.

“Then we’ll die as equals.”

 

* * *

 

 

Balinor huddled in the corner of his cell as the hours trickled passed and his execution drew closer. He drew his knees to his chest and fisted his hair with manacled hands. Shivers racked his body; images plagued his mind as each breath reminded him of his broken nose and the hands that caused it. Each twitch of discomfort reminded him of the unwelcome girth that invaded his body, stripping him of his dignity, his last scrap of honour.

Shame soured his stomach.

Balinor swallowed the sob that rose in his throat and pressed his face against his knees. Pain flared through his broken nose and radiated outward through the bruises that marred his face. His breath quickened. Balinor, however, forced himself to breathe through the pain until his breath slowed. He pressed harder and cried out in agony; the pain radiating across his face seemed a fitting punishment for what he’d done. What he’d let happen. How he’d dishonoured his kin.

“And all for nothing,” Balinor whispered to himself. His vision blurred and he choked on the next sob that rose within him. His hands tightened in his hair and pain seared across his scalp. “I’m going to die here.”

A thump echoed in the corridor almost as soon as he’d whispered the words to himself and his head snapped upwards immediately, his heart in his throat. Panic and hope waged war inside him until a familiar figure appeared outside the cell.

Balinor didn’t dare whisper his name as a familiar gaze glowed a soft gold in the darkness and a murmur unlocked the cell gate. His heart thundered in his chest as Gaius wrenched the gate open and entered in a swirl of sombre robes. Balinor couldn’t stop himself from reaching for him as the man dropped to one knee in front of him. Gaius reached for him in return and released a sorrowful sound as his fingers brushed his bruised face lightly, but then the older man hardened with purpose between one heartbeat and the next.

“We don’t have much time.” Gaius surprised him when he produced a key, pulling it from the shadow of his robes. Balinor wondered how he’d managed to steal it: Uther would never entrust it to a common guard. Clearly, Gaius had gone to great lengths to help him escape execution. His vision blurred again as his friend unlocked the manacles and he felt his gift surging to the surface again. Briefly, Balinor felt whole again and Gaius smiled in understanding before reaching for his arm. “Come on. We need to get out of here!”

Balinor went with him without hesitation. He followed him through several dark tunnels until the pair of them came to a gate that lead outside. Balinor inhaled the soft scent of greenery, of gentle rain and the scented oils that rose to the surface as a result.

A horse nickered in the distance.

Just one.

Balinor turned to his friend immediately, his heart jumping into his throat as an uncomfortable realisation settled in his gut. He’d have to continue alone. The thought weighed him down like lead. He wasn’t ready, not for this. Not after what happened. Being alone meant being vulnerable again. Balinor swallowed thickly, reaching for Gaius.

Gaius intercepted his hand and squeezed in understanding before guiding it to the gate. He added urgently, “I can’t go. I need to return the key; Uther can’t know I helped in the escape.”

“But I can’t do this alone.” His voice cracked with terror. “He’ll hunt me!”

“I know.” Gaius looked aggrieved at the thought. He squeezed his hand again. His tone grew twice as urgent and more forceful. “You need to listen to me now: this is important. Rumours have reached us that Nimueh has been stalking the Darkling Wood since the slaughter. He’ll think she was involved in the escape and he’ll be distracted for a time. Take advantage of that and get as far from here as possible!”

His stomach churning, Balinor shook his head. He felt disorientated — as though someone had ripped a rug out from beneath his feet and he couldn’t stop falling. His breath quickened. His heart tried to punch a hole through the walls of his throat. Balinor forced himself to say, “I don’t know where to go. I have no one left.”

Gaius faltered for an instant. Compassion flickered across his face. Finally, Gaius said quietly, if a tad reluctantly, “I have a sister. Her name is Hunith. She moved to Ealdor recently, and could use a hand on the farm. She’ll grant room and board in return for the help.”

Balinor stared at him for a moment and then nodded gravely, understanding his reluctance to share the knowledge. One mistake would bring Uther and his men down on the village in a lethal wave of steel and fire. Harbouring a sorcerer would be considered a heinous crime against mankind. Harbouring someone worth something to the King would be even worse. No one in the village would be spared. Balinor couldn’t let that happen.

“I’ll protect her.” Balinor pulled the gate open and Gaius stepped away, letting his own hand fall to his side. The pair of them shared one last serious stare as Balinor added firmly, “I swear it.”

Balinor fled the citadel.

 

* * *

 

His blood boiling, Kilgharrah listened to the thunder of hooves overhead. He couldn’t believe what he’d heard through stone and mortar. He couldn’t believe his kin would leave without him and still it happened. He pulled against the chain holding him prisoner and released a rumbling growl of rage when it refused to give. He pulled again and again. His growling grew louder and more enraged with each failed attempt to free himself. His claws gouged into the rock beneath him. His tail lashed through the air behind him and struck the wall nearby, sending a crack upwards and bringing a cascade of rock down upon him.

An anguished roar escaped him.

Kilgharrah tried a new tactic as his desperation grew. He snarled and tore at the chain with his claws — but the lethal edges just slipped away, his momentum driving them into his own forelegs.

Sulphur rose in his throat.

Flames surged up from his gut and engulfed the chain holding him prisoner.

A keen escaped him when nothing happened. His rage crumbled and left the weight of despair in its wake. The strength in his legs gave way, and he slumped against cold rock as grief rumbled in his chest.

Kilgharrah watched rivulets of blood seep from the gashes on his forelegs. For the first time in so long, he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t free himself. Gaius hadn’t thought of him and Balinor was fleeing swiftly; the muffled whisper of his thoughts was fading away, and Kilgharrah knew it wouldn’t be long until he couldn’t hear him. Something akin to a whine escaped him for the first time since he was a hatchling. Kilgharrah turned his face away, the sound deepening in his chest until it resembled a rumble instead.

Kilgharrah listened to the thunder of hooves grow fainter. He listened to the whispers grow dim. He listened until he had no one left. No family, no friends. No one to remember him. No one to mourn him. Slowly, Kilgharrah curled up and wrapped his tail around himself as he used to do when he was a hatchling — as his own hatchling used to do before Uther Pendragon murdered her and the rest of his kin.

“A hatchling for a hatchling,” Kilgharrah whispered to himself. His faint whisper echoed through the cavern. It sounded like the whisper of fate itself. Kilgharrah turned his head and hid his face beneath his tail. A growl rumbled through him. “I swear it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Not Beta'd. All mistakes are mine.


End file.
